09/09/2026
As a textbook Leo, summer was always my season.
So, through the humbling plot twist of perimenopause, Fall and I have trauma bonded and grown unexpectedly close. Beyond the cooler air and the relief of no longer spontaneously combusting, I have come to love what this season represents.
Fall feels like Mother Nature’s quiet lesson in surrender.
She whispers to the trees that it is safe to let go of everything they worked so hard to grow. That releasing something does not diminish the beauty of what was created. That decay is not the end of the story, but the beginning of rich, fertile ground for something new.
There is wisdom in that.
We suffer when we hold too tightly to seasons, identities and dreams that have already given us everything they came to teach. We convince ourselves that letting go means losing, because there is a vulnerable part of us that is terrified that nothing as beautiful will ever find us again.
But the trees do not negotiate fear with Fall.
They release with extraordinary grace, fully trusting that what appears empty is simply making room. They honour the work of summer by allowing themselves to rest.
I have learned to give myself permission to do the same.
To celebrate what we have diligently nurtured without immediately demanding another harvest. To move at a slower pace. To welcome the longer nights, where darkness asks nothing of us except to become still enough to listen to the softer more heart-centered parts of the landscape.
Because beneath the surface, life is still becoming.
Roots are deepening. The soil is being restored. Something unseen is quietly gathering the strength it will need to rise higher when its season returns.
Fall reminds us that letting go is an act of faith.
Faith that the magic has not passed us by. Faith that rest has purpose. Faith that even in the darker seasons, something beautiful is preparing to unfold.
Project: Ch*****ne (Phase 2)
Designer: Huong Nguyen
Photographer: Tracey Ayton Photography
